


The Lending Library

by Stakebait



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 1: Giles and Oz establish a morning ritual that's far from routine.<br/>Chapter 2: Oz gets his revenge on Xander.<br/>Chapter 3: Giles gets an unexpected present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Morning Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glossing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=glossing).



  
Almost anything can come to feel normal if you do it slowly enough. Giles had taken to arriving a few minutes before the proper start to the work day on full moon nights, to check on Oz before they were likely to be interrupted by students or janitors or Principal Snyder on yet another fishing expedition. It was purely a practical decision. And if, once he'd ascertained all was well, Giles let the boy sleep as long as possible, well, that was only an act of ordinary mercy. Which was not a crime, regardless of the opinion of the Council. It had nothing to do with the boy's naked form, glinting like a tangle of silver wire in the morning sun.

It was chance only, a restless night of dreams of fire turning sand to glass, that brought Giles in a full hour earlier than usual one such morning, with a larger-than-usual cup of coffee and a simpler-than-usual book. Giles truly sought nothing more than the comforting smell of book dust, a reason to abandon sweat-soaked sheets and seek the reassuring embrace of ties and tailoring. He checked on the boy out of habit, and duty, if those were even different any more.

And discovered why Oz looked so relaxed, all those mornings after. He lay full in a patch of sunbeam, like a cat, his legs tossed apart and laced with the shadow pattern of the wire cage. His eyelids, blue and violet with veins and faintly trembling, were still closed. Nothing indicated he was not asleep, except the hand slowly working between his legs.

It was not unusual, Giles reminded himself, for a boy of that age to wake with a piss hard on. Not unheard of even in a man of Rupert's own advanced years. It might well be that Oz had forgotten, in that state between dream and wakefulness, where he was. Certainly he believed he was alone.

The wire of the cage bit into Giles' fingers, and he twisted them, courting the pain as an incentive to let go. Walk away, damn it, go into the office, give the boy some privacy, he's little enough dignity left.

His quickening breath was loud, it seemed impossible that the boy didn't hear it, or the polished leather of his step, or the irregular jolts of his heartbeat as every butterfly twitch of his eyelids promised discovery. The impromptu curtains hung across the front were meant to protect a standing form from casual glances, not a supine one from this devouring gaze. Giles easily peered above them, his own erection pressing ludicrously into cloth and metal. The image of his own disembodied cock poking through the bars, demanding service, came to him then, obscene as a glory hole without even the grace of anonymity. You could still see his eyes.

If Rupert wanted to be a thoroughgoing bastard, he needn't even resort to anything so crude as force: he had the key. He doubted Oz gave a damn for missing classes, any more than he had at that age, but there were no facilities in the cage. Giles wished the image of making this cool, impervious boy piss himself or plead to be released didn't send another jolt of heat through his cock. Good people didn't see fine porcelain and get off imagining the crash.

But Giles was not good people. And that pale skin cried out to be marked. Finally, finally the boy came, and Giles found himself trembling with the need to lick those deft fingers clean. He could taste the way painfully short, scrubbed nails would feel under his tongue.

Surely now Oz would stretch and open his eyes. The flush of anticipated humiliation mottling Giles' cheeks wasn't doing anything to abate his aching erection. The circumstances – the boy having to explain his lycanthropic difficulties to the school board, for instance -- probably debarred any official censure. But he would know, and Giles would see it in those clear, disconcerting eyes. Giles wish he could take his cock aside for a quiet word and explain that being branded as a dirty old man was not, in fact, a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Oz only sighed softly, curled onto his side in a loose fetal lump, and threw one arm up over his eyes. His arse was thin and pale as the rest of him, and his hips were sharp. Giles staggered with shaken step into his own office and made sure the door was well closed before he took care of his own frustration, biting his lip to keep silent.

After that, it wasn't at all difficult for Rupert's subconscious to engineer another troubled night. Awake or asleep, Giles' head rang with reproaches, and if he dropped off it was only to awake soon after with a jerky start. It was one thing to fuck a beautiful 17-year-old when he himself was 19 and possessed no authority save that conferred by a leather jacket and a well-rehearsed sneer. And Ethan had never been innocent. To do the same at 40, when he was employed in a position of power, would be something else altogether.

To be sure, as far as the Council was concerned, he'd already committed the unforgivable sin in allowing Oz to learn of their existence. Merely buggering the boy bloody wouldn't even rate a memo. But the California public schools were likely to take a rather more extreme view. And even if he could shuffle that off as American sexual panic, with the accurate enough excuse that Oz scarcely appeared to regard official disapproval as a matter of much moment – the power of exposure was a more serious concern. There was no way he could be sure that any advances he made were accepted freely. All disturbing fantasies aside, Giles did not think he could forgive himself that. He only wished that Willow could say the same. Her forgiveness would be coals of fire. And he could picture all too clearly the look of betrayal blooming on her face.

Why was he even considering the notion enough to repudiate it? What the hell was it about the boy that made a career, a friendship, and a trust in pieces look even for a second like a fair trade for a few quick thrusts of the hips? Truly sex makes fools of us all. Giles groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. But he was back in the library early the next morning, watching the muscles of Oz's arm slide over one another and his thighs jerk and shudder.

He pushed it from his mind in the month after. There were demons to fight, as there always were. A new shipment of books to catalog. Various social upheavals in his little team to weather and ignore. But when the full moon came around again, Giles found his the first car in the faculty parking lot. He hadn't bothered to open a book, this time. And when Oz's eyes flickered open mid-jerk and caught his own, they didn't seem surprised.

Giles' mouth opened to say something, he hardly knew what. I'm sorry, its not my fault, you're beautiful, I'll be going now, it won't happen again. But Oz's eyes flickered shut so fast that he couldn't be quite sure he hadn't imagined it, or that they hadn't merely opened, unseeing, in his sleep. Surely if the boy knew he was watched he would be leaping up, covering himself with the heap of carelessly discarded clothes in the corner, accusing? At least stopping? If anything, Oz's fingers slid over his own cock a little rougher, a little faster. His other hand slid up over visible ribs to toy with a high, hard nipple. Giles sucked in a breath.

And after, when he sat in his desk chair with his head thrown back and relived every gloriously far-too-slow stroke, stretching it out to make it last, he felt eyes on his face. Looked up to see Oz, who should be safely in his second period class, watching him through the glass in his office door.

Giles jumped and pulled himself forward to hide his aching erection under the desk. "Come in, Daniel, may I help you with something?" Please god, nothing which involved standing up.

Oz came in and, unusually, closed the door behind him. He shrugged. "Don't have to stop."

Giles blinked. He could feel his face taking on the mask that Buffy referred to as British. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Oz flashed a grin. "Hey, its cool. Turnabout."

_Is fair play_, Giles' mind completed automatically. Oh, yes. Well. That rather answered the question of what Oz had or hadn't seen of his …spectator that morning. Giles could feel all the blood in his body rushing to either his face or his prick. He doubted he could have stood at that moment if his life had depended on it.

"I… um. Yes. I suppose I ought to apologize."

"No," Oz said patiently, and for a moment Giles had the disorienting impression that he himself was the younger of the two. "It's easier if you close your eyes," he added helpfully, and Giles finally realized what Oz wanted.

"Oh. Dear god." Giles cleaned his glasses.

Oz took them out of his hand and put them on the desk. "I'll go outside." He said. To watch through the door, as Giles had watched him through the cage. It made a skewed sort of sense, he supposed. Thank god for small mercies. With Daniel gone he couldn't do something foolish, like plead just to lick the taut stomach where white drops had scattered. Wouldn't have to endure the humiliation of a refusal, or worse, acceptance, having the boy see him come from that alone.

Giles groaned. He could do this, if he didn't think about it too hard. His hand crept back under the desk to ease the ache. But that felt cowardly. Oz hadn't had the option of anything to hide behind. Giles' legs straightened almost without his volition, sending him back enough to give anyone who might happen to be watching a clear view. He hiked the flapping tails of his white shirt out of the way. Giles couldn't imagine why the boy would want to look at his 40-year-old body – unavoidably loosened, lined and scarred despite keeping his hand in with a sword. But it made him feel dissolute, exposed in all his dirty glory before this clean-minded youth, and that was enough to push him over the edge. His balls tightened and warmth poured down over his knuckles like honey.

Giles fumbled for his glasses with his left hand. The boy was still outside, watching, his face solemn and innocent. Giles turned away.

But as the whole childish troop left the library that afternoon, Oz turned back momentarily.

"Anytime after dawn is cool," he said generally to the air in the library. "I like to change alone."

That set the pattern of it. They never touched, much less kissed. And they were never unclothed around one another without something between them – mesh, glass, once a loaded bookshelf with Giles peering through the cracks like a schoolboy. Sometimes Giles would touch himself as Oz did, imagining the boy's hands cool and small, but mostly they took turns. Giles never failed to flush hot with humiliation. Oz never failed to look unflappable and mellow, exactly as if he were alone.

Giles never watched Oz dress, after. It seemed too domestic, somehow. Presumptuous. He would go out for bagels or donuts for the two of them, and come back to let him out of the cage as if greeting him for the very first time.


	2. Kissing Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oz's revenge on Xander for his Willow kissage takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to piedmargaret for an amazing beta, and the inspiration for the title.

"Oz, man, don't think I'm not cool with the traditional jumping through the hoops. I just don't see how this is gonna help."

Xander paused. Oz walked around him twice, surveying his handiwork. Once more and he could curl up and go to sleep. But Xander was not making with the canine humor because he wished to retain his body parts, and who knew when Magic Guilt Girlfriend, now with overcompensation, might be listening. New Willow scary.

Um, and he was sorry.

"Although now that you fail to answer, I realize I don't have to get it. Because it's you doing the forgiving. It's like Zen. Don't talk some more and maybe I'll achieve enlightenment. You could whack me across the shoulders?" he added hopefully.

He really was sorry. He liked Oz, who was cool and a boy, and yet never felt the need to put Xander in a half Nelson. Plus he wasn't dead, snotty, British, or drunk.

He hadn't made out with Willow because she was Oz's girlfriend. He'd made out with Willow because all of a sudden it was like their skin turned into magnets and eye contact was a full-contact sport. Plus, imminent death. Oh, those wacky hormones.

But he should have NOT made out with Willow because she was Oz's girlfriend, and Oz was kind of a friend. Xander was pretty sure the guy code frowned on poaching, but he'd never actually had to deal with that part, since the last real guy friend he'd had was vamp-dust before they'd gotten past playing Three Minutes in the Closet to actual dating.

Still, Xander was willing to make it up to Oz. That wasn't the problem. It was just that Xander skills involved talking. Oz's habit of long comfortable silences made Xander… uncomfortable. Plus he was naked and tied to a chair in Giles' office. With its big glass door. If Giles walked in, or Snyder, or God, Cordelia, there was absolutely no way he could explain what they were doing. He didn't even know what they were doing. Well, he was groveling. And Oz was apparently going for the knot-tying merit badge. But what those things had to do with each other, or naked, was unclear. Also chilly.

Maybe Oz had called Giles or Snyder or Cordelia. Maybe tonight was wolf night and Oz was gonna haul the desk chair into the cage and have him for a midnight snack. Xander tried to decide which was worse. How mad was he? Oz looked... impassive. That narrowed it down.

"I'm really sorry," he offered again.

"Yeah," Oz answered.

Xander flinched. Shut up, he told himself. No matter how many times you do that he's not gonna say 'it's okay,' because it isn't, and Oz doesn't say words he doesn't mean.

Must be nice.

Oz tweaked one final rope and stepped back. "Cool."

Xander was glad he'd been smart enough to slump down a bit before Oz really got going 'cause his arms and ribs were wrapped up tight to the chair back. Wrists and ankles were bound to the chair arms and legs, and for reasons known only to Oz and God, Xander was sitting on a book. One Giles would doubtless have to burn. The one behind his lower back could perhaps get away with mere fumigation.

"How do I look?"

"Good," said Oz. "Really... stationary."

"Sexy," Xander said dryly. He felt like a car up on blocks.

"Yeah," Oz said, and casually straddled Xander's lap.

"What?" Xander went to the instant replay. When had the conversation gone off the bridge and into the chasm below?

Oz, international man of few words, kissed him. The conversation bounced off a couple of rocks, flipped over, and burst into flames.

Xander didn't realise he was kissing Oz back until his hands tried to come up and help. Right, rope. Tied by Oz. Willow's boyfriend. Whose tongue was in his mouth. Shit. Xander really didn't learn from experience. He tried to pull back, but there was no place to go. He settled for jerking his chin to the left and talking out of the side of his mouth.

"Whoa! I get it. No kissing the taken people." Or boys, but that was a freak-out for later, in the privacy of his own denial.

Oz, unfazed, started sucking on Xander's exposed throat instead. Xander had a still more paranoid thought — What if Oz had called Willow to come find them together? Okay, a girl would be the more conventional revenge nookie choice, but under the circumstances Xander could see how he'd offer a certain two for one vengeance value.

Teeth. Ear. Teeth on ear. Tongue in ear. Air blown softly over now wet ear... Xander shivered and moaned. No, wait. "Willow!" he yelped.

Oz sat back a little, just enough for Xander to miss the warmth, and stripped off his own shirt. "She knows," he said.

Xander tried on a couple of expressions: shocked, surprised… confused worked. Go with the classics. "Knows what?"

"What I'm doing."

There was a fine line between 'I deserve this' and 'now you're just dicking me around,' Xander thought. "You wanna let me in on it?"

Oz slid smoothly forward so that his crotch rested up against Xander's cock. "She had you. I get you. We're even." He started undoing the buttons of his fly. Xander licked his lips then tried to pretend he hadn't. Chronic Dry Lip Disease, tragic case.

Oz smelled of cinnamon gum and hair dye. Xander swallowed. "That... seems fair."

Oz's dick sliding up against his felt... right. Smooth, hot, soft over hard. Xander didn't close his eyes.

Oz had a tattoo. Of course he did; he was cool band guy. Xander wanted to lick it, but he couldn't quite reach. He licked Oz's collarbone instead. Oz's fingers found his nipples, high and tight, crept down to his balls and God, that's what playing the guitar was good for, huh? Xander gasped. There was Oz tongue in his mouth again, Oz teeth tugging at his lower lip.

Xander felt... like he did when the silence got long. Wasn't it his turn to do something? His hands were out of commission, unless Oz was into ineffectual flapping motions. With Oz riding his thighs, raising his hips only lifted him further out of reach. All Xander could do was kiss: Oz's mouth, when he could get it, otherwise a confusion of cheekbones, jaw line, soft spiky hair. And then not even… Oz was sliding down along his body, grazing his painfully hard cock along the way, and Xander's lips closed on nothing.

Oz looked up at him, eyes burning like they did on stage, and when he licked his lips, Xander thought he knew what was coming. Cordelia had done this once, but somehow the words 'You owe me big time, buster,' weren't as sexy as you'd think.

But the only thing that closed around Xander's cock was Oz's fist. Which was nice, sure, but Xander was already a connoisseur of the whole hand experience. And Oz wasn't even jerking so much as lifting him up and... oh God. Could you do that? You can't do that!

Oz's tongue was in his ass. Was there even a name for that? Xander had never heard of it, not even in dirty jokes. Was he panicking? He was panicking. Oz's tongue was in his ASS. And it felt... way too good. Xander squirmed. He was whimpering like a girly man, trying to thrust his cock up into Oz's fist to get a little friction, anything to counteract the waves of helpless pleasure. Xander was writhing now. The chair creaked. How was he gonna explain the broken chair to Giles? Emergency stake supplies?

Xander realized the unbearably good vibrations coming in his direction were grunts of pleasure from Oz, and even muffled words. "Good... hot... oh yeah..." Not exactly Shakespeare, but still, more commentary from the wolfman than he'd usually get in a week. Xander felt his balls tighten. He was so close. If Oz would just give him one good stroke... the incredible feelings disappeared.

Xander looked down at Oz through a haze of lust. "Why'd you stop... oh." Oz was kneeling on the floor, grinning, with a handful of come. He wiped his hand clean on the discarded shirt and stood up, fastening his jeans.

"You're just gonna leave me like this?" Okay, it was a squeak. But a dignified squeak.

"Sorry, Xand-man. Revenge." Oz leaned over and cut one of the cords. "You'll get out, one way or the other." He pocketed the knife and walked out, carefully closing the door behind him.

The other? Right. Giles finding him tied up naked in his desk chair in the morning. Which was in no way an attractive thought. Xander wondered what it was like for Oz, waking up naked with Giles for company after a night of wolfy fun. Giles probably really dug Oz. Quiet people were a librarian's wet dream, right? And where had Oz learned that tongue thing anyway? Not from Willow, that's for sure.

Xander struggled with the ropes. Maybe he could at least get a hand free.

******

If it was around 11 at night when Oz had abandoned him to his fate, it must have been after 1 by the time Xander had been forced to accept that he wasn't going to be able to get a hand free. As the first step to getting the rest of him free, had been the original plan, but somewhere in the squirming Xander had admitted to himself that he'd happily give up all pretense of MacGuyvering his way out if it came with jerking off privileges.

'Cause Oz tongue. Tongue of Oz. As far as Xander was concerned, Ohmygod was now officially one word. Some vague part of his brain was aware that a little more ranting should have been in order, but he'd as much as admitted that he deserved it, after all, and anyway every stupid squirm against the stupid ropes seemed to come with 3-D, surround sound, digitally remastered flashbacks. Wondering what combination of alcohol, bribery and truth or dare it would take to make it happen again kinda took the edge off his righteous indignation.

It was dark in the library, except when the occasional car sent a stripe of high beams past the high window. There's something wrong with blushing in the dark, Xander thought. It seemed wasted. Somebody should see it. Of course, somebody would, come morning. Xander felt another wasteful blush thrill his whole body. Giles would come in, and there would be no way in hell that he could talk his way out of this one. Giles would see him – see it, the giant (or at least, bigger than half the guys on the swim team) throbbing erection that made anything, even the truth, sound like a bad excuse.

Xander wondered if his body kept an extra blood supply for special occasions. How was he managing to keep the most painfully hard cock of a whole career of sexual frustration, and still have enough extra for all the manly blushing? Sorry, liver, hope you weren't doing anything important.

Look, Giles, no hands. Xander decided maybe his superpower was coming using only the power of his mind. Hey, you never know until you try, right? He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the scene. But Oz straddling him, Oz on his knees, somehow got all tangled up with Giles saying something cutting and turning away, Giles simply ignoring him and leaving him that way, shoved in a corner, Giles laughing at him with someone he couldn't quite see.

Xander was aware that these were ideas that one might tend to call, in the vernacular, bad. He tried to conjure happy scenarios instead. Giles sucking him off, Giles smiling when he saw him. Normal sexual fantasies, except for the part where they were about a) a guy and b) who was Giles. Normal-er, anyway. The kind where you don't want to kill yourself until *after* you come, which considering his rope issues was not gonna be his problem any time soon. No joy. He was profoundly glad he didn't have to explain to anyone why he kept coming back to these particular nightmares, teasing them out, lingering over each carefully chosen word. Humiliation felt like sex: no wonder he'd liked Cordelia so much.

Eventually it became too much bother to open his eyes again, just to see the same books and furniture leering at him in the shadows.

*******

Xander had woken up at dawn. This wasn't his usual habit, which was more about the snooze button and the praying to the procrastination gods, but then he didn't usually sleep naked and tied to a chair in a public place.

He'd woken suddenly and completely, with a jolt of anticipation that fell, on the scale, somewhere between Christmas Morning and Big Test that I Didn't Study For. Xander tried, and failed, to imagine what that added up to. Santa bringing report cards? Getting graded on your presents?

In all his scenarios for this morning, Xander realized, he'd forgotten something very important.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: even at 17, no erection lasts seven hours, unless you are Sting and do scary Yoga things that seem like more of a punishment than something to brag about to magazine reporters.

Xander wanted to be turned on. His brain was turned on. Ropes, check. Public humiliation, check. Imminent arrival of hot older guy, check. Thin sounding cover story, check. It had all the right elements, except for bad Casio music in the background, and Xander figured he could skip that just this once.

Unfortunately Xander's body was not cooperating. If there was anything worse than having a blatantly embarrassing hard on in this situation, it was not having one. But the book he was sitting on had sharp corners that that human thigh was not designed to absorb. His legs had pins and needles. His wrists had rope burn. He had to piss like a racehorse that really had to piss. There were crumbs in his eyes that he couldn't rub away.

Xander was well aware that a real hero would brush aside these petty annoyances, not to mention actual torture. But he wasn't a real hero, and anyway its not like he was saving the world, or defying the enemy, or anything. There wasn't anything else to concentrate on, except whether anyone in homeroom would actually notice that he was wearing the same style-impaired T-shirt he'd had on yesterday, and not a new and entirely different style-impaired T-shirt. The fever of lust that last night had made it impossible to focus on mundane details like escape seemed to have burnt itself out, and now Xander, blowing wistfully on the coals, was stuck thinking "at least my nose doesn't itch."

His nose started itching. It was distinctly possible that this was hell.


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles opens his gift.

There was lumpy envelope taped to the outside of the library doors, and Giles froze. Even after a year his mind leapt to the last time he'd found an unexpected note... but would Angelus use purple?

Giles untucked the flap of the envelope and withdrew a card featuring a green cartoon alien with googly eyes. Definitely not Angelus. The outside read Happy Birthday, which was odd, because his birthday was months away.

In any case he didn't believe he'd ever mentioned it to the denizens of Sunnydale. They already tended to treat him as ancient without further reminders. Willow, he supposed, could have hacked into the school's database to surprise him. It was the sort of thing she would do, except that she'd surely have gotten the date right.

Ethan? It was obscure and slightly unnerving, and therefore the sort of way his old friend would announce a reappearance, although the fact that it hadn't exploded yet was a mark in the 'no' column. With some trepidation, Giles opened the card. Inside it said, "I didn't know when, but every day is like a rebirth, right? Anyway, I left you a present. Oz."

Remaining in the envelope lay the thing that had distorted its shape -- a tiny, sample-sized bottle of lubricant. Giles caught his breath. He tried to tell himself it was impossible, but it was too late, his mind had already presented him with a vision of Oz waiting on the other side of the door, with nothing between them, nothing holding them back.

The doors creaked as they swung inward. The room was empty. Of course, of course, of course it was. Oz was in a committed relationship. Giles was an old fool for feeling disappointed, if a tiny tearing in the chest was what disappointed felt like.

Firmly Giles surpressed a rush of something like hatred. Oz had left him a bottle of lubricant. It was not meant to be cruel. It was thoughtful, even charming. The first, the only gift there had ever been between them, of course it would be something small and half-joking. It was a step forward, really. Giles should be encouraged, if anything, that Oz had wanted to give him anything at all, far less something sexual. Oz was not to blame for the presumptuous leap of fantasy Giles had made.

He almost believed it. No, he did believe it. It just didn't help. Never had the gap between what Giles wanted and what he had been so bitterly apparent. He felt very unsexy, and very old, with a whole day to get through before he could be away from this place, away from unsettling androygynous beautiful bodies and teenaged hormones, someplace with other adults heavy with the day's cares and perhaps, if he were very lucky, a drink.

He pushed open his office door, tossed the card on the desk, and automatically moved to sit down. Unfortunately the chair was already occupied.

"Xander?" Giles blinked. No, it wasn't a fatigue-induced hallucination. Alexander Harris was tied to his office chair. Naked.

Giles took off his glances and pinched the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. Xander was still there. Giles toyed with the idea of simply turning around and walking back out again.

"Giles! Nice morning?" Xander's bright tones verged on the desperate.

"Would you care to explain what you're doing here?" Giles asked with heavily tried patience.

"No," Xander assured him with what Giles was certain was complete sincerity.

Giles perched on the edge of his desk. "How unfortunate." He left the words 'for you' unstated. "What are you doing here?"

"I... um.. there was a thing."

Really he should just keep the Scotch in the office, Giles reflected, and devil take never drinking before noon. Clearly whoever came up with that rule neither worked with teenagers nor on a Hellmouth.

"A demon thing? A vampire thing? A spell gone horribly, horribly wrong?"

Xander, unaccountably, blushed. Giles couldn't help noticing the color spread down his neck and onto his chest. He had a nice chest, a bit broad for Giles' taste but well-muscled, certainly. A pity he didn't exercise his mind half as effectively. "No," he was mumbling, "Not like that! A human thing. Um, more or less."

Giles rolled his eyes. "Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

Xander blinked. "Humans are animals, right?"

Giles stood up, the better to loom ominously over Xander. It'd been ages since he'd had a good loom. He adored Buffy, but lack of respect for authority was clearly her middle name. Xander's shrinking, however overplayed for comic effect, hid enough of a taste of real fear to be balm for his self-inflicted loss of dignity this morning.

"I meant," Giles articulated icily, "that I'm tired of playing twenty questions. What. Happened. Here."

Xander made prolonged eye contact with Giles' belt buckle. "Um, well, the thing is... you know the thing with me and Willow right?" Xander flicked a glance up at Giles' expression, gulped, and continued in a rush. "Last night Oz said he wanted revenge which was fair so I let him tie me up but then he said he got me 'cause Willow did and did this thing with his tongue and then left me here and I couldn't get out and I really have to pee so could you just untie me and we can both pretend this never happened?"

Giles turned away to clean his glasses so as to hide the smile tugging the corners of his lips. I left you a present, indeed. Oz was turning out to be as inventive as Ethan had been, once upon a time. Giles wondered if the saying about gift horses and mouths applied to boys as well. Xander was just about at the right height to suck him off. But given the lubricant, that was clearly not what Oz had in mind. And it wouldn't do to be ... ungrateful.

Giles put the glasses back on and took a very deliberate, slow survey of the naked boy before him. Xander's blush returned and deepened. Ignoring the end of the boy's spate, he asked curiously, "A thing with his tongue? Blew you a raspberry, perhaps?" Or just blew you? Although that scarcely counted as revenge, to Giles' mind. More a consumation devoutly to be wished. Still, to a straight boy always touchy about his masculinity...

Xander shook his head so that his hair fell into his eyes, as if he could hide behind it and disappear. "You don't want to know. Trust me."

Giles allowed a hint of the steeliness of his Ripper days to creep into his tone. "If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked."

The blush was clearly becoming a permanent state. "I don't know what its called. Like French kissing, only, um, not your mouth." Ah, now that was a fascinating insight into Oz's tastes. Not to mention fuel for fantasies for weeks at least.

"Rimming," Giles supplied absently, well used to correcting the deficiencies in the Slayerettes' vocabulary.

"How did you...?" Xander broke off. "Never mind. Never, ever tell me." He looked up through his lashes and met Giles' eyes for the first time in this conversation, and held the eye contact, in seeming contradiction to his words. What...?

Oh. Giles looked around for whatever it was Xander didn't want him to notice. It wasn't far afield. The boy's cock had half-hardened where it rested on his thigh.

Well. That was interesting.

"I see." And you see that I see. And you're desperately hoping I'm too British to mention it, aren't you? How do all you innocents think the British get laid? Giles mused. Outwardly he continued briskly. "Well. Let's get you untied."

And then he dropped to his knees before Xander matter of factly. The boy gaped at him. Giles, sitting back on his heels to be nearly eyelevel with Xander's cock, smiled and began to untie Xander's ankles, to lend versimilitude to an otherwise compromising position. Then he leaned in to begin undoing the far more intricate series of knots at Xander's torso.

God bless Oz for thinking to put these in the front. Having Giles doing god knew what just behind him out of sight might have increased Xander's fear, which would be entertaining, but it couldn't compare to the intimacy of this. The sleeve of Giles' shirt just brushed over Xander's cock, seemingly by accident, as he worked. Giles knew his breath would be warm on Xander's rope-sensitized skin. Undoing knots pulled tight by hours of struggling was an exacting task. Giles had no intention of rushing himself.

He could have cut them in an instant, but if pressed he'd maintain that he had no weapon nearby that he'd trust so close to human flesh. A battleaxe is hardly a precision tool. As to why he hadn't simply untied Xander's wrists and left him to finish the rest himself, well, he could hardly see them at that angle, now could he? It was weak, Giles admited to himself. But perhaps the boy wouldn't think to ask. Judging by the cock now thoroughly hard and presenting an impediment that was hard for Giles even to pretend to ignore, he wouldn't be thinking at all.

With only Xander's wrists still bound, Giles sat back on his heels and glanced up at the boy's face. He picked up the little tube from the desk behind him and put it in Xander's palm. "Oz left me this," he said, and untied the final knot, then stood up and stepped away from the boy, giving him plenty of room.

Xander brought his hand up to examine what he'd be given, and paled. "Oh no. No way." He stood up shakily and backed up couple of paces, as if he meant to run out into the school hallways naked. "I'm not... I mean, I might have... but I don't want to do anything anal."

"All right." Giles shrugged, half turning as if the conversation were over. "Too bad, really. Its been a long time since I've gotten properly fucked."

He moved over to the desk and glanced down at one of the papers on it, at random. An overdue book list, as it happened, but it served to signify that he'd put the matter out of his mind.

He counted off the seconds in his head, then turned to glance at Xander as if surprised to find him still there. "Yes?"

Xander was staring at him. Giles smothered another smile. Really this was almost too easy. "Can I help you with something?"

"You... I mean, I assumed..." Xander floundered to a halt.

"That I was a top?" At Xander's continuing blank look, he added in an exasperated tone. "Its quite self-explanatory if you think about it for a moment."

"You... want me... to ... with you."

Giles put down the peice of paper. "Do try to complete a sentence. I ... wanted you... to fuck... me, yes. But since you're clearly not inclined to do so, I suggest you get dressed before going to class."

Xander swallowed. "This isn't happening."

"So you said."

"No, I mean, this isn't happening. I'm still asleep. I have a really high fever. Someone made a wish and now I'm in the alternate porn universe."

Giles considered the hypothesis. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Yes." Xander suddenly grinned, and Giles was reminded that he did, actually, like this boy. "I want to fuck you, yes. See, complete sentence."

"Very good," Giles said approvingly. He unbuckled his trousers and lowered them, then simply bent over the desk. The wood pressed uncomfortably into his own erection.

"Should I... is there something I'm supposed to do?"

Giles stifled a sigh. "Put the wet stuff on your cock. Come over here and put your cock in me. It's not complicated."

"Just like that? Won't it hurt?"

"Yes, now come on." It felt like ages that Giles lay there, arse up and exposed like a schoolboy awaiting a spanking. He wondered if the boy had taken one look at his old body and decided he couldn't bear to go through with it. But then he heard fumbling and the unmistakeable squelching sounds of a wet hand slicking over skin. And finally, eons later, he felt the tip of Xander's cock rest gently against the pucker of his arse.

The boy took a firm grip on his hips, but he still hesitated until Giles impatiently bucked his hips backward. And then, with a groan, Xander finally bloody well pushed.

It burned. Of course it did, it always burned, but Giles had forgotten how much. The angle was off and he canted his hips until Xander stopped meeting resistance and could slide inside. Another unbearable pause, and then the feeling of fullness slowly and hesistantly receded.

Giles wondered if it were possible to die of frustration. "For god's sake, I won't break. Just do it."

"Thank you, Mr. Nike," He could've sworn he heard the boy mutter, but then he was finally being fucked hard and fast and it no longer mattered what anyone said. The boy had no technique at all, missed the prostate more than he hit it, and clearly had never considered reaching around to do Giles the courtesy of some direct stimulation. He just drove in with a singleminded desperate eagerness to come. It was perfect.

Giles' hips slammed into the edge of the desk and he knew he'd have bruises there. He wondered what Oz would think when he saw them, whether he'd be quick enough to realize the significance of what they implied. He rather thought so. Assuming, of course, that Oz wasn't somehow already watching the scene he'd engineered. The thought only made Giles hotter.

It was a short step from there to closing his eyes and imagining the boy inside him was Oz, Oz's slender hands gripping his hips to get a fraction of an inch deeper instead of Xander's strong ones, Oz using his body with sheer selfish lust. Even fogged as it was, Giles' brain failed to encompass that final image. It just wasn't Oz's... style. Xander was so much like Giles himself that it made him wince, responding to shame and lust like Pavlov's dog. But Oz was incapable of forgetting his partner. If Oz fucked him like this, dirty and rough and impersonal, it would be because Oz knew he needed it just like that, and after he would have to face those clear, unshockable, curious eyes.

Xander shuddered and came deep inside Giles, then pulled out immediately, before he'd even softened completely. Ah, homophobia. "I... I gotta go. I'm late," he stammered awkwardly, scrambled into his clothes, and hopped out into the library, buttons undone and shoelaces flying. Giles would be prepared to bet anything that it would be years before the two of them would be alone again.

Giles slowly peeled himself up off the desk and straightened his own clothing slowing and methodically. He hadn't come, but he resisted the temptation to finish himself off. He wasn't 17 any more, he could wait and let Oz reap the rewards of his kindness.


End file.
